


I'll Stop the World

by enigma731



Series: Keep the Car Running (Universe) [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Demisexuality, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Time, Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 17:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: “How many individuals have you had sex with in your lifetime?” asks Gamora.Peter's first response is to choke on air. “I--It’s not like I’ve kept a list.”“And how many of them did you see again afterward?”He clears his throat. “I mean, a few of them lasted for like...two weeks maybe? And I’veseenplenty of my exes again, just usually not on purpose and it usually doesn’t--yeah, okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.”“I would rather have you as my best friend for life than my sexual partner for two weeks,” she says bluntly.The understanding that dawns on his face then surprises her; she’s expected him to be either disappointed or dismissive but instead his expression goes impossibly soft. "Gamora. You’re my best friend too. You’re--I wanteverythingwith you.”Or: A first time in more ways than one.





	I'll Stop the World

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been 10 months, 20k words, and two false starts in the making. It was the one concept I knew I really wanted to write before Infinity War came out, and I'm really happy that I've managed to both finish it in time and end up with something that I think does justice to the ideas in my head. A million thanks to [invisibledaemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon) and [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone), without whom this story would not exist.

When Gamora thinks about her life, she finds all of the landmarks defined by death. 

Her parents. Her homeworld. The first of her siblings to fall at her own hand.

The list goes on, but she remembers every one, every time she’s left a part of herself behind, moved inexorably closer to becoming...something other. A monster, she’s been certain for as long as she can say. Now...something else, perhaps. Something she isn’t ready to define. Not precisely un-monstrous-- _that_ isn’t the sort of thing that goes away, but perhaps...a monster with a different purpose. With choices, if only a few.

What she does not think, does not realize until very much later, is that her real transformation is to become defined by _life_.

* * *

She knows what it’s like to lose your family, to lose your entire world--or at least she thinks she does.

The cruel irony of going through that particular trauma so very young is that she remembers her parents, remembers her homeworld only in their loss. She remembers the way it felt like time stood still, the way everything ceased to be real for a while. The way, when reality finally _did_ set in, it hurt so much that all she’d wanted was for it to go away again. She remembers the sensation of a throat raw with sobbing, grief so intense that it took weeks for her to even notice the physical torments that were the price of crying in front of Thanos.

Later, one of the lies she tells herself will be that her feelings for Peter emerged suddenly. She’ll picture a not-quite-planet collapsing inward, an explosion in the sky where his ship used to be, an imagined tear in the eccentric fabric of their family. 

In truth, there’s nothing quick or sudden about it at all. In reality, it’s months surrounded by the openness and warmth he seems to radiate, a shared song, a willing ear. The gentle reverence of his hands on her waist when he’s convinced her to dance--The way he treats her like a thing that is precious long before she’s ever realized that truth about herself.

Allowing herself to act on those feelings, to make the leap over the wall she’s been building around her heart since childhood is the part that happens in an instant. It feels impossible, until it doesn’t. Afterward, it will only ever seem as though it was always inevitable.

Now, in the unfamiliar darkness of the Quadrant, she feels as though she’s standing at the edge of a precipice far steeper than any part of Ego’s core. She’s lost track of time watching Peter sleep, crawled into bed with him probably hours ago, let him drift off curled against her. But now he’s moving around fitfully and her thoughts are anything but peaceful. She’s sitting with her back up against the strange headboard, knees tucked up to her chest and a constant refrain of doubts playing in her mind like a heartbeat-- _what if, what if, what if?_

She’s slipped so far into her own head that she misses it when Peter wakes, can’t even say how long it’s been until suddenly she registers him blinking up at her blearily, running a hand through sleep-disheveled hair.

“Hi,” she breathes, the sound of her own voice oddly jarring in the stillness.

He opens his mouth to respond and chokes a bit, which sends her scrambling for the bottle of water on the table beside her. She has no idea how to begin taking care of him, but she’ll do anything she can to try.

Peter takes a long swallow of the water, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “What’re you doing all the way over there?”

Gamora swallows too, unsure how to answer him. She wants to be honest, owes him that, she knows, but she doesn’t have the words. And she’s not sure how much this should be about _her_ besides, with everything he’s just been through. “Thinking.”

Peter shakes his head. “You know, it’s funny. Usually I’m pretty great at avoiding that, but tonight…” He trails off and sighs, scrubbing a palm over his face.

“Doing a lot of thinking?” Gamora prompts. She lets go of her knees and carefully straightens her legs out on the bed, feeling bizarrely as though she needs to control her movements, like he might be some sort of flighty animal prone to startling.

“Brain doesn’t wanna turn off,” he agrees, tapping his temple like there might be some sort of switch in it. 

She considers this, tiling her chin up to the ceiling and rolling her neck until a bit of the tension gives with a satisfying pop of vertebrae. “Would you like to talk about--any of the things?”

At best it’s an awkward approximation of the comfort she wants to offer, but right now it’s the best she has.

“No,” Peter says quickly, though distinctly not affronted, which is a relief. “No, I--That’s kinda the last thing I wanna do right now.” He falls silent, then suddenly seems to recall how they started this conversation. “Penny for _your_ thoughts, though?”

Gamora blinks at him, wondering if she’s misheard, though she feels that way about at least a quarter of what he says at any given time. “What?”

For a moment _he_ looks confused before realization hits. “Oh, it’s an Earth thing. It means, like, I want to know what you’re thinking so bad, I’d give you actual money to tell me.”

In truth, she’d give actual units to make sense of the conflicted, jumbled mess in her own head, so it takes her a minute to respond. “You.”

His voice is tinged with something like disbelief. “You’re--thinking about me?”

Ordinarily she would tease him, would make some crack about his self-centeredness. But Peter is desperate for others to like him because he is unbearably lonely, she’s coming to realize more every day. She’s just seen that used against him in the cruelest way imaginable, _cannot_ act in any way remotely similar. When she makes the decision to answer truthfully, it feels like an act of defiance, like a final attack on Ego’s ghost. Finally, _finally_ , that’s what gives her the strength.

“I have feelings for you,” she says simply, before she can change her mind. “I think we should discuss it.”

Peter’s eyes widen, but he nods. “Yes!” He raises one arm like he’s about to do a fist pump, then catches himself and settles. “I mean yes! Yes, we should.”

Gamora takes a breath, blows it out again, pulse racing. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Okay.” Peter shifts under the furs, sitting up and scratching absently at his chin, a gesture that looks decidedly anxious. “Um...so...what kind of feelings do you have?”

“I _care_ about you,” she says easily--that much is obvious. That much she accepted mere days after meeting him. That much also isn’t enough. “I am--attracted to you.”

He’s been watching with his head turned in her direction on the pillow, but now he rolls onto his side, chin propped on one hand as he meets her eyes. And there’s a fucking _smile_ tugging at the corners of his lips, in spite of everything. “Don’t pull your sword, but I kinda had an inkling.”

“You are attracted to me too,” says Gamora, trying to push forward and ignore her irritation at his smugness, at the fact that he’s once again seen straight through what she’d thought was a rock solid facade of strength and control. 

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” he says emphatically. “Understatement. You’re like, the most amazing woman in the universe.”

“All right.” She clears her throat, trying to keep this pragmatic, business-like, because if she doesn’t… “So, now it’s a spoken thing. We’ve both said it.”

“We did!” He holds up a palm hopefully. “High five?”

“ _Peter._ ” She swats lightly at his wrist, trying to get him to put his hand down. She’s exasperated, doesn’t even have words for this relentless silliness of his, yet cannot deny that it’s a part of what makes her...yes, love him.

“No?” He catches her hand, laces their fingers and grins. “What about this, then?”

She doesn’t have time to respond before he’s kissing her, all softness and warmth and light, despite the faintest taste of tears dried on his lips. 

“Was that better?” asks Peter, when he pulls away. He’s still grinning, still looks insufferably pleased with himself, but he’s also a little flushed and a lot more breathless than she thinks he ought to be from the duration of the kiss alone.

She finds her gaze drawn to his lips despite knowing that he’s waiting for an answer, considering the sensation of them against hers. She’s been curious, if she’s honest with herself, has wondered what kissing him would be like since Knowhere, even as the old voice of duty, of her training, insisted from the back of her mind that it must be impossible for her, must be some sort of trap.

“Better,” she breathes absently, reaching out to trace the pad of her thumb across his lower lip, which curves upward even more under her touch.

She pauses, caught in a swell of doubt when she realizes she can’t find any other words to express the multitude of things she’s feeling. Then she meets his eyes again, sees a glimmer of vulnerability there that makes her heart ache. Deciding she doesn’t need to say anything else for right now, Gamora leans in to kiss him again, allowing more heat, more wanting, to drive her movements this time.

Peter makes a soft sound against her mouth, threads his fingers into her hair and runs the callused skin of his thumb across the line of her jaw. She stretches out on the bed without breaking the kiss, not quite pressing the length of her body against his, though she can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. The blush on his cheeks has deepened when he pulls away again, and even in the darkness she can see his pupils blown wide with desire, with outright _need_. They are at a tipping point, she realizes, for what feels like the hundredth time in far fewer hours. It’s been one brink after another, free-fall both figurative and literal, life-change upon life-change until none of them will ever be able to trace the process back to a single one. She wants--no, _needs_ this choice to be deliberate she realizes, doesn’t want to simply give in blindly, tempting as it may be. It’s far too big a risk, far too much on the line.

“Wait,” she breathes, resting a hand on his shoulder to stop him from leaning in again on instinct, to get his attention.

Peter freezes, the immediate uncertainty that washes over his face hitting Gamora like a punch to the gut. He’s always been on an open book, but now she’s struck again by the way that the past few days have left him utterly vulnerable. He’s taking this as a rejection, and it breaks her heart.

“No,” she says emphatically, wanting only to fix the lost expression that’s come over him again. “That’s not what I--” It takes her another moment of consideration to figure out what she does mean, to put words to the uncertainty that’s twisting in the pit of her stomach. “I want you. I do. But I don’t _just_ want you, so I need to know what you want from me as well. If it’s also--more.”

He frowns, apparently struggling to understand some part of what she’s just said. “You’re talking about sex?”

“I am talking about more than sex.” She sighs and makes the decision to dive over the figurative cliff in an entirely different way. “You are precious to me for so much more than sex, Peter. I don’t want to lose that, whatever we do.”

He blinks, clearly surprised by her response and apparently confused too. “I--why would you lose me?”

“I thought you _died_ today,” she says immediately, the words surprising her with both their vehemence and the way they catch in her throat. “ _Twice._ ”

“Oh,” he says softly, exhaling a breath that’s distinctly shaky too. “I mean--I thought the same about you, and it was _awful_ , but...isn’t that more of a reason to be together now? When we can?”

He leans in again, and Gamora sits up on a surge of uncertainty she immediately regrets.

“Wait,” she repeats. “Wait, that wasn’t all of what I meant.”

Peter blows out another breath but seems to be slightly more cognizant now, more willing to listen and less apt to jump directly to absolute rejection. He sits up too, groaning a bit as he stretches his back, and meets her eyes. “All right. Tell me what you meant.”

Gamora is quiet, trying to figure out how to express the fear that’s crawling under her skin without hurting him unduly. “How many individuals have you had sex with in your lifetime?”

His first response is to choke on air, though she knows this is a topic he’s outright bragged about in the past. “I--It’s not like I’ve kept a list.”

“All right,” she says pointedly. “How many of them did you see again afterward?”

Peter clears his throat. “I mean, a few of them lasted for like...two weeks maybe? And I’ve _seen_ plenty of my exes again, just usually not on purpose and it usually doesn’t--yeah, okay, I’m gonna stop talking now.”

“I would rather have you as my best friend for life than my sexual partner for two weeks,” she says bluntly.

The understanding that dawns on his face then surprises her; she’s expected him to be either disappointed or dismissive but instead his expression goes impossibly soft. “Gamora. You think I just want a hookup with you?”

She shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. That’s the point.”

He reaches out again to rest his palm against her cheek, fingertips curled into her hair, touch so warm and gentle that she can’t even consider pulling away. “You’re my best friend too. You’re--I want _everything_ with you.”

Gamora swallows, searching his face and finding nothing but sincerity and something akin to reverence. _Love_ , she thinks, then realizes immediately that it isn’t the first time she’s seen that in him at all. “Are you _certain_?”

“Yes,” he repeats with the same quiet intensity he typically reserves for stories of his childhood on Earth, or memories of his mother. That, more than anything else, is what convinces her to take the next leap.

“All right,” she manages, though she can hardly hear the sound of her own voice over the volume of her heart pounding in her temples. “Then I have something to show you.”

“What--” Peter begins, but she reaches out and puts a finger to his lips, knowing she’ll never get started again if she allows herself to lose momentum now.

Gamora has lost track of the number of times she has been truly, actually suffocated in her lifetime--an odd bragging right, as it were--but the breathlessness she feels now as she leans back and lifts up the hem of her shirt is another thing entirely. The skin just below her navel is tinged a faint, delicate silver--not the static metallic hue of the implants that scar her face, but a more natural, subtle shade that matches the tension, the affection, the increasingly familiar want that’s coursing through her under his gaze.

He inhales audibly, bites his lip and then drops the hand that’s been on her face, reaching instead to run his fingers over the skin she’s just exposed. The silver deepens under his touch, her nerve endings becoming immediately exquisitely sensitive.

Peter looks back up at her, awe written all over his face. “Is this how you blush?”

“Not--from embarrassment,” she says tightly, aware that her cheeks are probably flushed too, but a more vibrant green rather than silver. Peter runs his thumb across her abdomen, over to her hip bone, and she outright shudders at the sensation.

A smile curves over his lips, mostly sweet but also a bit sly. “Is it a sex thing, then? Like, you want me?”

“Yes,” she sighs, because she can’t deny the truth of that, though it isn’t complete. She catches his hand and laces their fingers, wanting to stop him before she loses all ability to form coherent thoughts. “But it’s more than that.”

Peter goes still again, taking her lead, though there’s a mix of curiosity and desire written all over his face. “Tell me. Please.”

For a beat she doesn’t know where to start, but then she finds the words that have been there all along. “On my homeworld, it was a tradition to--bond--for life, in most cases. There was a measure of choice, it was never imperative, but according to tradition, this --” She breaks off, gesturing to the silver again, now the most vibrant she’s ever seen it. “--indicates that we are...compatible. It signifies a biochemical reaction in my body that relates to more than just sex. It suggests that we would be suitable lifemates.”

Peter’s eyes widen, and for a moment she worries that he’ll panic after all. But when he manages to speak again, all that she hears in his voice is longing and desperate, fragile hope. “Have you ever--glowed for anyone else?”

“No,” she says honestly, forcing herself to continue despite the tremor in her voice, the vulnerability her instincts still tell her to hide. She _wants_ him to know, impossible as it’s always seemed to share this with anyone. “It’s rare for us to have this response to more than one person in a lifetime. I didn’t even think it was possible for me.” She lets go of his hand when she’s finished speaking, putting it back against her skin, hoping he’ll read it as the gesture of trust she intends.

“Gamora,” he whispers, looking down at the places where he’s touching her. When he raises his head again, his face is undeniably wet with tears, breath hitching quietly, though his smile is radiant. “Did you--know before tonight?”

“It started on Xandar,” she admits, the blush on her cheeks deepening as she acknowledges how long she’s kept it from him. “After we’d defeated Ronan. I came out of my room to see that you’d fallen asleep on the couch and I--felt it.”

“That long ago?” he asks, sniffling audibly.

Gamora shakes her head and aims her tone somewhere in the vicinity of wry humor. “Yes, two months. Practically an eternity.”

Peter shakes his head with a watery laugh. “Pretty sure I fell for you the day we met. And I knew that you cared about me, really, but--holy shit, _two months_...” He breaks off, stunned.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” she says quietly. “I was afraid it would scare you, that I would lose you if you knew.”

“No,” he says vehemently, shifting closer again without breaking her gaze. “Not at _all_.” He hesitates, seems to consider far more than usual before finally speaking again. “You said I’m the only person you’ve ever...glowed for. Does that mean you’ve never had sex, either? Or is that, like, a separate thing?”

“It was separate for many of my people,” she says carefully, the past tense stinging, as it always does. “But I have never considered--never _wanted_ it with another person.”

He considers this, then nods. “But--you do now? With me? Because we don’t have to--”

“I do,” she interrupts. “I _do._ I only hope that it will not be a problem.”

He furrows his brow. “Why would it be a problem? Is it, like, an anatomy thing? Because I am more than prepared to get creative.”

“No,” says Gamora. “At least, not that I know of. I meant--you are far more experienced than I. I hope that I won’t be a disappointment.”

Peter’s expression goes incredulous in a way that would be comical under any other circumstances. And then he actually laughs. “Oh, god, Gamora. That--that is so not a problem. Like, it’s not even in the same galaxy as a problem.”

She takes a breath, trying to calm the wave of insecurity that’s currently climbing the insides of her chest. “Then you’ll teach me?”

He grins. “Hell yes. Damn, this is gonna be fun.” Then he yawns so hard that his jaw makes an audible pop, surprising himself, judging by the way his expression changes. 

Gamora arches an eyebrow, oddly relieved by this turn of events. Her entire body feels wrung out as the adrenaline of this conversation begins to ebb, somehow more intense than even what she’d felt over her own survival earlier. “Perhaps we should begin that tomorrow?”

Peter wipes at his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Yeah. Just--Will you lie back down with me now?”

“Of course,” she breathes, feeling a fresh swell of protectiveness and affection.

She settles with his front to her back, his hand still splayed low across her belly.

Later, she’ll realize that another transformation was made in this moment, in beginning to find comfort from this particular connection.

* * *

Gamora is unaccustomed to waking slowly. For as long as she can remember, it’s been a jarring return to consciousness with pounding heart and head, with the instinctive thought that the vulnerability of sleep is deadly when you are surrounded by enemies. It’s been months since that was true, of course, but survival reflexes are difficult to change.

This morning, though, she finds herself drifting, pleasantly warm and surprisingly safe.

The first thing she notices as she blinks sleep from her eyes is that the artificial daylight on the Quadrant is much stronger than the dubious, often-flickering lighting panels on the Milano. The second thing she notices is how close Peter is, curled up on his side, still deeply asleep.

Gamora’s found her way out of his grasp again in sleep, but she isn’t tense anymore, isn’t afraid of it or the fact that she wants it.

Rolling onto her side, she allows herself to study him, to truly focus in a way she hasn’t before, without fear of being caught. Peter is stretched out scarcely inches from her, close enough that she can see the rise and fall of his chest, can feel the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek and stirring the stray tendrils of hair that have escaped from her braid. She knows the lines of his body so well at this point that it probably ought to be embarrassing, but most of it is covered up by sheets and furs right now.

Instead she takes in the details that _are_ visible--the rough dryness of the calluses on his fingertips, the delicate bluish vein that runs along the underside of his wrist, the nearly-invisible freckles on his upper arms. The sheer _size_ of his body isn’t lost on her either, the deceptive bulk of muscle that masks his relative fragility. She feels a sudden, overwhelming swell of protectiveness as her gaze travels up to his face, half expecting to see the previous day’s pain reflected there. His expression is surprisingly serene, though, apparently dreaming of something pleasant, judging by the little hint of a smile that curls the corners of his lips.

Still, she can’t help noticing the fine lines that mark his forehead and the corners of his eyes even in total relaxation. She wonders fleetingly if they were there a week ago, if his brush with Ego has deepened them significantly. 

All at once, her chest is painfully tight with how much she cares for him, how badly she wants to show him, how there is no reason not to act on that wish anymore. She stretches out a hand almost before she’s realized what she’s doing, hesitates momentarily, then lays her palm against his cheek, marveling at the soft warmth of his skin, the contrasting prickle of his stubble.

Peter stirs almost immediately, and she has an instant to wonder whether disturbing him was a mistake, and whether disturbing him like _this_ is a violation of some unknown boundary.

But then he’s opening his eyes, blinking a bit blearily, and smiling wide enough to steal her breath. When he speaks, his breath is still gravelly with a mix of exhaustion and sleep. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“You’re not--” She pauses, frowning, as she realizes the full implications of what he’s just said. “Wait. You _have_ had dreams about me in the past?”

Peter flushes bright red all the way down to the place where his neck becomes obscured by the furs. “Well yeah, I mean, not like weird dreams. Dreams about you...being awesome. With your sword and stuff. Thought not with your sword in bed, that _would_ be weird. Unless you’re into that, in which case--”

“Peter.” She silences him with a finger to his lips. 

He catches his breath audibly, suddenly looking at her as though he’s been falling rather than sleeping, as though she’s just reached out to bring him back to earth. She had _something_ in mind to say to him, really she did, but now the only thing she’s capable of doing is kissing him. It’s gentle at first, more of a greeting, a grounding, than anything else. But then Peter groans against her mouth, runs a hand down her back to urge her closer, and all thoughts of tenderness are lost in the immensity of _wanting_ him.

She allows him to guide her across the few inches of mattress that have formed a gulf between them in sleep, curls into his side and splays her palm out across his belly to feel the rise and fall of it as his breathing accelerates. Running her fingers downward experimentally, she freezes upon encountering bare skin where his shirt’s begun to ride up. For an instant she thinks instinctively that she’s crossing a line, that she ought to stop, then remembers with a thrill that she has _absolutely no reason to._ Decisively, she runs her hand up under the thin fabric and is rewarded with a wave of eager tension under her touch, another needy little sound from the back of his throat.

Peter reciprocates, tracing her side, then down along her hip, and finally over to her abdomen, hovering just above the hem of her shorts. She knows from the instant warmth spreading over her skin that she’s flushed silver again, and that he can probably tell now too. 

It’s a strange feeling, sharing something so intensely intimate, allowing Peter to know how much he means to her, how much she wants him, how much it would hurt to have him ripped away. It ought to be terrifying, says the voice of instinct honed by years under Thanos. Yet now all she feels is relief, mixed with the intoxicating thrum of anticipation at every brush of his fingers.

Gamora shifts closer still, sitting up and hesitating before planting a knee on the other side of his hip so that she’s straddling him. She’s had him in this position often enough while sparring, but this is different entirely. A smile curves across his face, the lines around his eyes becoming apparent again, this time in pure joy. She stretches upward, intending to kiss him again--and then abruptly pauses as his stomach growls loudly enough that she would have heard it even without her enhanced hearing.

She arches an eyebrow. “So...breakfast first?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good, keep goin’.”

She frowns but does as requested, leaning back in. She doesn’t get much further than brushing her lips against his, though, before his stomach growls again. It’s at that point that she realizes the hand he’s raised to her cheek is shaking, and remembers that he’s scarcely had more than a few bites to eat since leaving Berhert nearly two days ago.

Gamora sits back on her heels, deciding that they’ll have plenty of time to come back to this later, when she isn’t so worried about taking care of him in other ways. “Breakfast first. Now.”

Peter sighs, but apparently knows better than to argue. “Fiiine.”

* * *

It’s an unspoken agreement that they go straight back to the captain’s quarters after finding and consuming a couple of ration bars each. She’s seen Peter wolf down food before, but never quite this quickly or this urgently. He’s hardly said a word the whole time, has been so completely focused that it’s almost fascinating. He doesn’t even get like this on jobs, most of the time. 

As soon as the door closes behind him, he exhales heavily, but doesn’t actually relax, his whole body still thrumming with palpable tension. She has to admit that she probably looks the same way, hasn’t felt this sort of eager suspense in...well, maybe ever. Still, there’s a moment of awkwardness in which they just stand looking at one another, the languid ease of the morning vanished. The significance of what they are about to do, of the line they are about to cross together, has never felt more apparent, only she has no idea how to articulate any of those things in words.

“I want you to--teach me about sex,” she says finally, when Peter’s still silent. Not the most eloquent thing she could have said, but it will do to get her purpose across. 

“Now?” he asks, the eagerness immediately evident in his voice. “Please tell me you mean, like, immediately.”

She nods, and he takes two steps toward her, but then pauses, hesitating again.

“Um.” He licks his lips, flushing. “You said that you’ve never--Do you--uhhh--know anything about the biology of--” He clears his throat. “Do you at least have a rough idea of what goes where or do we need to start there?”

It’s such a painfully earnest question that Gamora can’t help laughing, some of the tension finally draining away. “I am an adult, Peter. I understand the physics. What I want you to do is teach me what feels good. Show me how to make this good for you.”

His blush deepens at her laughter, but his eyes light up. “ _Yes!_ ” Then he goes still again, looking like a child overwhelmed by a stunningly large number of candy choices. “Um….how do you wanna…?”

That ought to be her line, Gamora thinks. But there’s something endearing in how lost he looks, even comforting, realizing that perhaps he isn’t as much a master of any of this as she’d thought. Perhaps they are on more equal footing than she’d imagined. And she’s never been one to question a decision she’s already made. That’s worked out well enough for her thus far.

“How about this?” she asks, taking a breath and pulling her shirt over her head. She isn’t wearing anything under it, hardly ever feels the need.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Peter breathes, actually gaping at her a bit in a way that she would probably find obnoxious were it not so utterly pleasing. “That--yeah, that’ll work.”

“Aren’t you supposed to reciprocate?” she asks, still surprised by this reaction. She’d assumed that things might be awkward because of her own inexperience, has spent weeks worrying that Peter would be disappointed by her performance. What she _hasn’t_ expected is the look of uncertainty, of self-consciousness in _his_ eyes now.

He nods once, closes the distance between them, but then pauses again, shirt still frustratingly in place. Instead he reaches up to touch her cheek, meeting her eyes. There’s a softness in his gaze that immediately snuffs out her confusion and impatience, leaves her feeling nothing but overwhelming affection for him. 

“What?” she whispers, turning into his hand so that she can feel the warmth of his palm.

“I just--want you to know that you’re in control here,” he says a bit hesitantly. “This is about having fun, so there’s no pressure whatsoever. We can do as much or as little as you want right now, just tell me if you wanna stop at any point.”

Gamora shakes her head reflexively, is about to tell him that she’s perfectly capable of stopping him if she wants to, of taking care of herself. But then she realizes that’s the entire _point_ , that she doesn’t have to, because he is offering her that consideration. Because he has _always_ shown her that consideration. 

“I know,” she whispers, kissing his palm and noting the way that makes his entire body shudder. “Now take off your shirt.”

Peter grins and shrugs it over his head, then tosses it over one shoulder enthusiastically. In the background, something falls over with a thud and he grimaces. “Whoops.”

Ordinarily she thinks she’d tease him about that, but right now Peter is standing shirtless in front of her and it’s pretty much impossible to focus on anything else. She’s seen him half-dressed before, of course, because it’s not like there was much in the way of modesty on the Milano. Plus she suspects he’s chosen the time and location of more than a few shirt changes specifically to put on a show for her, not that she’s complaining.

“Let’s--bed?” says Peter, then flushes when he seems to realize how the words have come tumbling out. “Let’s _sit_ on the _bed_.”

“All right,” she says charitably, taking his hand to lead him in that direction, deciding to be charitable once again and not comment on how flustered he is. It’s still comforting, in a way, and flattering besides.

Peter exhales as he flops down onto the bed, then kicks off his boots and drags his legs up onto the side of the bed, back against the headboard. Holding out an arm, he waggles one eyebrow, clearly beckoning for her to join him. He probably intends it to look sexy, she thinks, but the effect is so goofy that she finds it more endearing than anything else. Still, she steps out of her own shoes and climbs up beside him, hesitating before doing what she really _wants_ to do and carefully straddling his thighs.

He reaches out, hand momentarily floating in the air like he can’t decide where to touch her. Then he brings it down gently on her shoulder, traces the pad of his thumb along her collarbone. “God, you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Peter,” she says skeptically, more out of habit than anything else. But there’s a part of her that believes him, if she’s being honest with herself. It’s the same part that wants to express a similar sentiment to him, but has no idea how to articulate it. “You are--also nice to look at.”

It’s clumsy at best, she knows, but he still practically glows. “You really think so?”

It ought to be obnoxious--Peter _knows_ he’s conventionally attractive, she thinks, but there’s something so genuine in his expression now that the reaction actually pleases her.

“Yes,” she repeats, and mirrors his movements as she reaches out, touching his shoulder first before running her fingers downward, through the sparse hair on his chest, feeling the texture of it against her skin. “I like this.”

He shivers again, blush deepening. “You do?”

Gamora nods, repeating the motion once, then picking up his arm and running the pad of her thumb along the shorter, finer hairs there. “I do. I used to wonder what it would feel like.”

He exhales a little puff of air, note quite a laugh. “Do you--have hair anywhere else? Besides your head, I mean. I know you don’t have it on your arms.”

“No,” she says a bit absently, stroking his arm again and watching in fascination as his skin contracts into tiny bumps. Tracing them with a fingertip, she looks back up to meet his eyes. “What does this mean?”

“Means that felt good,” says Peter. “Really good. It’s--On Earth we called them goosebumps, although now I can’t remember why. I guess you don’t get them?”

“No,” Gamora repeats, then gestures at the silver on her abdomen, which is even brighter than the previous night, more vivid because of what they’re doing, what they are about to do. “Just this.”

“I _love_ that,” he says enthusiastically, reaching out to run his fingertips over the flushed skin. When he does, the movement leaves behind a subtle trail of brighter coloration, marking his touch. He inhales sharply as he notices, jaw going a bit slack. “Oh my _god._ This is awesome.” 

“Peter,” she breathes, torn between affection and exasperation as he uses a single finger to draw a silver heart on her abdomen, then writes their initials inside of it. 

“Too much?” he asks, but he doesn’t look even a little bit contrite.

“Everything with you is too much,” says Gamora, but her tone is undeniably warm. She turns her attention back to his body, spreading her fingers over his chest and exploring gently. “Tell me how to touch you?”

“Um--my hair’s good?” He points to his head, as though that clarification might be required. “And my neck. Also--” He takes her hand and readjusts it on his chest. “Here.”

Gamora arches an eyebrow as she realizes what he means. “So what you are saying is that you _also_ have sensitive nipples?”

“Oh my god,” Peter groans. “Oh my _god_. I do _not_ wanna think about Drax’s nipples while I’ve got you half-naked in my lap.”

“Too bad,” she says lightly, then strokes the pad of her thumb over his nipple experimentally, feeling the way it hardens under her touch, the same way her own do. Interesting. 

He shakes his head. “What about you?”

She knows exactly what he means, that he is asking generally how to touch her, wanting to learn her preferences. But she’s starting to feel punch-drunk on all the adrenaline, and she can’t resist that particular opening. 

“I, too, have _very_ sensitive nipples,” she says in her most formal voice. Then she demonstrates for good measure, brushing a fingertip over her own nipple. She’s expecting the familiar prickle of pleasure that runs through her, but it’s heightened somehow, from doing this in front of him, from sharing it.

She’s expected Peter to laugh, or perhaps groan again in exasperation. Instead he chokes, gaping at her hand and the movements it’s making. Slowly, he brings his own hand up to cup her other breast, just resting against her for a moment before touching the most sensitive places, mirroring the motion she’s just done. Gamora arches into his hand, surprising herself.

He grins like he’s just won some sort of prize, then gets another idea. “Hey. I know you said you’ve never had sex with another person, but do you ever touch yourself?”

Gamora bites her lip, taken aback by the question, by how casually he’s asked about something so intimate, something she’s had to keep _so_ secret all of her life, lacking the safety for that kind of indulgence. “Yes. Though--more often...recently.”

Peter nods so quickly she’s surprised he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “Awesome.” He pauses, clearing his throat again. “Um. Would you maybe wanna...show me how?”

“How I touch myself?” she echoes, incredulous. It isn’t that she’s offended by the question, it’s just not one she’s ever even considered having to answer.

“Yeah.” He pauses, softening, and moves his hand back up to her cheek. “Only if you want to. I just thought...might be the best way for me to learn what you like?”

“You watch a lot of women masturbate?” asks Gamora, half a challenge, half genuine curiosity. 

“No,” he says immediately, the sincerity in his tone surprising her. “Gamora...I have never done _anything_ like this. Nothing that mattered as much as this.”

She considers this, then nods. “Do you touch yourself, then?”

This time his grin is most definitely of the shit-eating variety. “Hell yeah. Like, all the time. But also more often, you know, recently.”

“Because of your feeling ‘sexual love’ for me?” asks Gamora, echoing Mantis’s words that are forever burned into her mind.

He flushes again, making her realize just how sensitive that particular reaction of his is. “Um. Yeah. Pretty much.”

She considers this, thinks about what he’s said, what she wants. “Then how about you show me first?”

“Um.” He shifts under her a bit, then runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never had anyone--” He looks surprisingly insecure suddenly, as though he’s only just realized how intimate a request it is.

“I have never had anyone any-of-this,” she reminds him, pointedly. “But I would never ask you to do anything you were uncomfortable with.”

“No!” he says quickly, surprising her with his sudden vehemence. “No, I want to, it was just--It’s just a little weird to-- _fuck_ , you have no idea how much I’ve thought about being with you like this.”

The longing in his face is so clear again that it makes her heart ache, and she can’t resist leaning in to kiss him again, lingering with her forehead rested against his, listening to his breathing. When she pulls away again, his smile is a bit shaky, the previous day’s emotions still just beneath the surface.

“Are you all right?” she asks, finding his hand and squeezing it gently.

Peter nods. “Yeah. I--Yes, let’s do this. You want to see, then I’ll show you.”

“Okay,” says Gamora, trying to mirror his resoluteness now that they’ve made a decision. Still, she’s acutely aware of every second of what they’re doing here, of the way their relationship is changing, evolving by the second. “Where do you want me?”

“ _Everywhere,_ ” Peter says hotly, then waggles his eyebrows, easy humor recovered just like that. “Um, well. If I do this in bed, I’m usually lying down, so...I guess maybe on that side?” He gestures to the empty space on the mattress beside him.

“ _If_ you do it in bed?” she asks curiously, shifting off of him and watching as he sits up and stretches, back making a soft crunching noise that he seems to find oddly pleasing. “Do you do it elsewhere?”

“Sometimes in the shower,” Peter says a bit absently. “‘Specially if there’s not much privacy.” Standing puts his back to her, but she can tell when he undoes his belt and shoves his pants down, kicking them off unceremoniously. Then he considers before following suit with his boxers.

She’s going to ask him if he’s talking about the past few weeks on the Milano, because in truth she’s had the same struggle. But then he turns around, completely naked in front of her, and she’s instantly incapable of doing anything other than staring. 

Back on Xandar, two nights after the silver first appeared, she’d used the holo to research Terran anatomy. She’d wanted to know then what was possible, physically, even while rejecting the idea outright. So she knows, at least in theory, what to expect of his body. Still, seeing him now takes her breath away. Her gaze follows the thin trail of hair down from his navel, taking in the dip and swell of his hip bones, the patch of sand-colored curls between his legs. He’s already starting to get hard, she’s pretty sure, and she can’t deny the thrill she feels in the knowledge that it’s because of _her_.

“Is it--okay?” asks Peter, voice breaking into her reverie. 

Gamora looks up at him quickly, surprised to find a look of near painful vulnerability on his face. “What?”

“Am _I_ okay--for you?” he asks softly.

“Oh,” she breathes, realizing how her silence must have read to him. “ _Hell_ yes. You are stunning.”

This time he blushes all the way down to his navel, even more evident with no clothes to hide it.

“Good,” he exhales, surprising her with the relief in his voice. “Good, that’s good, that’s--yeah.”

She hadn’t realized Peter had any doubts at all in his mind, had assumed the bravado was all genuine when it came to his looks and sexual prowess. Again, she finds it oddly comforting. 

“You were going to lie down,” Gamora reminds him, feeling the increasingly-familiar urge to take care of him, to be sure this leap she’s requested he take goes well for both of them.

“Right.” He lifts his arms over his head once, twists his upper body a couple times in an anxious sort of stretch, then lies back against the bed. After a moment of what she thinks might be centering himself, he moves one hand down to rest against his abdomen, turns his head to meet her eyes tentatively as he gestures at his body. “You uh--know what all this is?”

Gamora shakes her head affectionately. “Yes, Peter. I know what a penis is. I also assume you know Terrans are not the only race to have them.”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I know. And I figured you did, I just--is it--what you expected?”

She arches an eyebrow, unsure now whether she’s hearing insecurity or curiosity. “Well, I figured you had one, given how eager you have always been to refer to yourself as a dick.”

He grins. “But not 100%.”

“Peter.” She can’t help rolling her eyes, though she’s laughing too. “Are you going to show me how this goes, or did you want to change your mind?”

“Well--” He shakes his head, blows out another breath, and finally wraps a hand around himself. “It kinda depends.” His eyes are still on her face, gauging her reactions--she can feel the weight of his gaze--but she can’t tear her own attention away from what his fingers are doing. He’s still not fully hard, she’s pretty sure, but she can see how easily his body is responding, despite the vestige of tension that remains between them, both of them learning how this is going to go.

“Depends on what?” she asks belatedly, as she realizes what he’s said. She’s not paying much attention to his words anymore, but talking seems to be helping him relax.

“What I--” He grunts softly as he touches the head of his dick, hips jumping. He’s been focusing mostly on the base until now, she realizes, the contrast becoming apparent. “What I want. If it’s just taking care of business as quickly as possible or--more fun, I guess.”

“What does it feel like?” she asks, scooting closer, leaning up on one elbow to give herself a better view. She notices belatedly that a few goosebumps have erupted where her breath is brushing the top of his thigh, that peculiar realization twanging through the band of anticipation that’s been building in her own chest.

“Um.” Peter furrows his brow in concentration, the movement of his hand changing again. He’s got a firmer grip now, she thinks, starting to find a rhythm as he makes longer, more regular strokes. “Like--sex, I guess? I don’t--know how else to describe it. Nice. Warm. Satisfying but--but also not.”

“I don’t know how I would describe it either,” she admits, though she’s certainly feeling the not-quite-ache of wanting him, stronger than ever before. For a moment his words in her memory tempt her, practically dare her to reach down and touch herself. But then she’d miss some of what he’s doing, and she doesn’t want to forfeit even a second of that.

Instead she moves closer to him still, until her bare shoulder brushes his arm. That draws his attention, and he gives her a crooked smile, breathing coming heavier. He must be fully hard now, she thinks, hand moving in measured strokes up and down along his shaft. 

“Yeees?” he drawls, expression a peculiar mix of self-conscious and smug. He’s still flushed, but now it’s shifting into exertion and arousal rather than embarrassment, the mattress shifting a bit as he rocks his hips up to meet each return of his hand.

“Just...enjoying you,” she says honestly, returning his smile, though much smaller. Gamora hesitates briefly, then reaches out, tracing the curve of his thigh first, then up to his hipbone, finally coming to rest on top of his hand, fingers wrapped around his.

“Oh,” he grunts, voice lower now, huskier than she’s ever heard it before. “Oh, fuck.”

“Is this okay?” she asks, because she needs to know that it is, though she can guess from his reactions. 

“Yes,” he breathes, words matching the movement of their joined hands now. “Yes, yes, _yes_.” 

His strokes are quicker now but still short, precise. It isn’t just up and down, she realizes now, there’s a subtle twist of his wrist too. She isn’t sure how much time passes, too caught up in his hand moving beneath hers, hips working to meet, all of the tiny, private details she’d never have imagined if she’d tried. 

But then that’s striking too--she _hadn’t_ imagined it, at least until recently, hadn’t even thought to consider it. Hard to think of anything as indulgent as sex, as _love_ , when you don’t have a bed, or a home that isn’t a cell, or any confidence that you aren’t about to stabbed in the back. She’s craved it though, she realizes, in that place more primal than coherent thought. It’s come roaring back to life since she met Peter, but never more than right now. Suddenly needing more contact, she sits up, wrapping an arm around his shoulders while their hands stay joined. He looks at her, grins, then leans over for a clumsy kiss. 

When his rhythm changes, she feels rather than sees it, too caught up in what his lips are doing. Looking down again, she realizes how tense he’s gone, muscles taut as a coiled spring. His hand has nearly stilled, save for tiny swipes with the pad of his thumb across the head of his dick, rubbing more than stroking now. His entire body jerks with each one, each breath a ragged gasp, not quite a sob. 

She’s known where this was going, of course, has watched all of it build, and yet it still takes her by surprise when he comes. It’s not the fact that it happens, or even when, but _how_. He makes a sound that’s half groan, half gasp, and curls in on himself, shaking, eyes screwed shut in absolute ecstasy. Gamora lets her hand fall away, lets his weight shift off of her and watches, afraid to interfere, to take even a little of the pleasure from him.

He’ll come back to her soon, she thinks, will sit up and grin, and probably blush, and then it will be her turn. He doesn’t, though, for several long breaths. Only then does she realize that he’s crying. 

“Peter,” she says quietly, leaning over in an attempt to see his face better. 

He’s curled up on his side now, head turned partly into the mattress in what she thinks is shame. She has a moment of doubt, wondering whether she’s done something wrong, managed to hurt him after all, or perhaps just asked too much when he’s still so raw. But that doesn’t matter, she chastises herself. She should be focused on him, and what he needs.

“Peter,” she repeats, a bit louder. His tears are practically silent now, though his face is twisted into an expression of utter vulnerability that she can’t quite read. It’s a striking contrast to yesterday, after the funeral, when he’d sobbed so loud that his voice had gone hoarse, and yet… 

“Talk to me?” she practically begs, resting a hand on his shoulder before running it down his arm. She finds his hand and laces their fingers again, squeezing gently. “Tell me what you need.”

He takes a large, shuddering breath before finally speaking. “Sorry, sorry, _fuck._ ”

Gamora rests a hand against his cheek, strokes gently until he finally turns his head to look at her. Then she bites her lip and forces herself to ask the question she needs answered. “Did I hurt you?”

His expression turns to utter confusion so quickly that it’s almost comical. “What? How would-- _No!_ God, no, I swear.”

She exhales slowly, trying to settle her nerves. “All right. Good. Then--Will you tell me what’s going on?”

Peter sniffs and wipes at his eyes clumsily. “Um. It’s just--a lot, I guess?”

“Oh.” She feels foolish, now that she’s actually thinking about it, because she’s nearly managed to forget everything he’s been through in the past twenty-four hours, and _of course_ that would be overwhelming. “Yes, it’s--You have had so many losses.”

He blinks, surprising her when his own perplexed look doesn’t abate. “No, I--I mean, yes. That’s true. But I meant--you. This. Is a lot. I never--” He breaks off again, clears his throat, then rolls back to face her, running a finger over the silver on her abdomen. “I have wanted this for _so long._ Not just sex. Everything this means.”

When the truth of it sinks in she finds that she can’t respond, her own throat tight, the backs of her eyes prickling dangerously. Instead she brings his hand to her lips, kissing each of his fingertips tenderly. 

Peter makes a sound in the back of his throat and sits up against the pillows, holding out an arm. “C’mere.”

Gamora doesn’t hesitate, lets him pull her into his lap again and leans in to rest her forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in as they both settle themselves. When she looks up again, his tears have dried, a soft smile on his face. 

“What?” she asks, unable to resist returning it.

He shakes his head. “Just--all of this. But also, you’re still wearing pants. And I’m pretty sure you’re owed an orgasm.”

“Is that how it works?” she asks, with more levity than she truly feels. It’s not that she’s completely forgotten her arousal--that’s pretty much impossible with him so close, and so naked, and particularly after everything she’s just watched. But she’s still reluctant to put too much focus on herself, and worried her performance might disappoint him besides.

“Yes,” says Peter. “I mean--If you still want it. If I didn’t completely kill the mood.”

“You didn’t,” she says fervently, because his tears really have nothing to do with her hesitation. Though it might be easier in some ways, she isn’t about to let him assume that he’s done anything wrong here. “I just--hope that I can be what you want.”

“You _are_ ,” he says immediately, matching the forcefulness in her tone. “Can I--Let me show you, please?”

Gamora takes a breath, nods, then lifts her hips and pushes off the rest of her clothes. Peter inhales sharply, and for an instant she thinks he might be reacting in shock or horror. “What is it?”

He just shakes his head and grins. “That was _awesome._ You have any idea how hot it is when you move like that?”

“Yes,” she says tartly, equal parts confused and irritated at her own misgivings. “I have quite the talent for getting undressed.”

“You _do_ ,” Peter insists unironically. Then he works his gaze slowly down the lines of her body, with such silent intensity that she feels acutely self-conscious despite knowing that she’s been doing the same to him all morning.

She studies his reaction as he gets down to her knees, once again planted against the mattress on either side of his thighs. “Well?”

She’s expecting something bordering on salacious, like _hot_ or _sexy_ or whatever else Terran men might be accustomed to saying in such situations. 

Instead his smile turns soft, almost reverent as he reaches out to rest one hand very lightly on her hip, just caressing with the pad of his thumb. “Gorgeous.”

Gamora bites her lip. “How similar am I to--the women you are accustomed to?” She thinks she knows the answer to how her body compares to a Terran woman’s, spent a truly embarrassing amount of time researching that on the holo in the dead of night. But she still needs to hear it directly from him.

“Well,” he says slowly, the hand that’s been on her hip sliding gently up her side, then back down again, “if you mean compared to a human woman? Not that different, in theory. ‘Course I’ve never actually _been_ with one to know.”

Gamora can’t help it--the tension that’s been building in her chest with this question dissolves into mirth, and she laughs. Because _of course_ he hasn’t had the opportunity, but she’s been too worried about rejection to even think about that.

“Oh,” she breathes, when she can speak again. “Right.”

Peter runs a hand through her hair, tucking a few stray pieces behind her ears, then presses a kiss to her forehead. “Turn over, yeah?”

The movement is a little awkward, but she manages, settling with her back against his chest and tilting her chin up to meet his eyes again. His expression is still undeniably tender, and she lets herself truly consider it for the first time. Peter looks at her as though she’s the best thing in the world--not a weapon, not an asset, not a warrior. Just _her._

“You good?” he asks, waiting for her to nod before running a hand down her arm again, then shifting it to her side, her abdomen, coming to rest over the silver in the position she’s started to think of as _home._ “Show me how you make yourself feel good?”

She slips a hand down between her legs, then hesitates. “This has never been--I have never had much time, or--comfort. For me it’s just...utilitarian, I guess? A distraction or a release, at times, when I really needed one.”

“Show me,” he says again, kissing her temple and making her shiver at the brush of his stubble. “No expectations. I just wanna see you.”

“All right,” she sighs, trying to steady herself. She shifts against him a bit, letting her head rest on his shoulder and one of her legs fall open to the side. 

She finds her clit easily, by feel alone. She’s accustomed to doing this in the dark, in secret, as quickly as possible. Even recently, she’s been reluctant to do much more than the minimum. Not enough privacy on the Milano, and too many feelings she’d assumed were impossible. 

Peter makes a soft sound in the back of his throat as her fingers make contact, not quite a groan. Gamora glances up at him, then back down at herself. She starts with large, light circles, skirting the most sensitive spots for now. Her movements are slower than what she’s accustomed to, partly because she wants him to see what she’s doing, and partly because, despite all of his reassurance, she feels like this needs to be more of a show than usual. It feels strange, though, so she gives up after a while, sighing and letting herself find the more familiar rhythm.

“Relax,” Peter breathes against her ear, apparently sensing her insecurity, the trouble she’s still having letting herself get into this fully. In fact, she was more turned on just watching him than she is now, actually touching herself. “Relax, you’re amazing.”

Gamora snorts skeptically, but she moves her hand a bit faster, makes the circles smaller, starting to brush across her clit every few strokes. Despite her doubts about performance, her body is beginning to respond, her breath coming faster, the skin on her abdomen feeling hot as the silver flush deepens.

“This is--basically it,” she tells Peter, half apologetically. When she steals another glance at him, though, his mouth is hanging a bit open, pupils wide with renewed desire. She can hear his heartbeat beneath her head, and she realizes suddenly how quick it’s gotten. Maybe not a disappointment, then.

“Feels good?” he asks, ducking his head to kiss the spot behind her ear, which sends a shiver through her that takes her completely by surprise. 

“Yes,” she hisses, shifting again so she can tilt her hips upward a bit, a better angle of contact with her hand. 

Peter works his way down the side of her neck before speaking again, tiny, feather-light brushes of his lips that nevertheless make her breath catch in her throat, draw a soft groan from her.

“You ever want to try more?” he asks, nothing but gentle curiosity in his voice.

“Yes,” she admits, grunting as she presses a fingertip directly against her clit for a moment, then again, quickly. Then she resumes the tight circles, teasing herself, wanting it to last again, this time purely for her own pleasure.

Peter hums thoughtfully, then runs a hand over her stomach, up to her breast, stroking the pad of his thumb across her nipple. “How ‘bout this?”

She hasn’t realized how her body’s come alive, how exquisitely sensitive her nerves are now, until that simple touch sends a shock of sensation through her, makes her cry out. “Fuck. _Yes._ ”

He grins, practically glowing himself, and does it again, and more after that. His motions mirror the ones that her hand is making, and she arches into his touch, practically writhing in his lap. 

Peter makes a primal, pleased sound at that, not quite a growl, and brings his other hand up to cup both breasts at the same time. “And this?”

“Yes,” she pants, all traces of self-consciousness melted away, entirely consumed with the things he’s doing to her, with the things she’s doing to _herself_ , pressing directly against her clit now, rocking her hips to create the friction. 

She can feel her orgasm building with each stroke, equal parts tantalizing and inevitable. It crests and breaks as his mouth finds the sensitive spot behind her ear again, the soft heat of his lips and the rasp of his stubble, the immensity of his touch and her touch and the undeniable love she feels sending her over the edge. She rolls her head back on his shoulder and sobs as she comes, then turns over immediately, burying her face in his neck as her whole body shakes.

“Good,” Peter murmurs, voice a warm rumble against her ear. “Good, I gotcha.” He keeps it up, a litany of reassurance, hands working over her back in big, slow circles.

Gamora lets herself drift pleasantly, not asleep, but not fully alert, either. That more than anything else feels like a luxury, an absolute dream, just being safe and cared for. 

When she finally lifts her head again, Peter has his fingers curled into her hair, gently massaging her scalp.

“Thank you,” she breathes, leaning up to kiss the underside of his jaw. She can’t quite articulate everything she’s grateful for, but she needs him to know nonetheless.

Peter smiles crookedly, just a subtle curve of one corner of his mouth. “I dunno, kinda feels like that should be my line.”

Gamora shakes her head. “You have given me so many things I never thought possible. You don’t even know.” Mainly because she’s been reluctant to acknowledge it, the voice of her training insisting that it would be a liability. She’s tired of that, though, she decides. She’s had too many recent reminders of how easily the opportunity can be lost.

“Yeah?” he asks, idly twirling a lock of hair around his finger, then letting it spring back into a loose curl. “I mean, I could say the same to you, you know.”

She gives him a skeptical look. It’s not that she thinks Peter’s life has been easy, it’s just that she can’t imagine having anything so profound to contribute. She’s still scarcely able to be her own person, and Peter is one of the most fiercely independent individuals she has ever met. Sometimes even to his own detriment. “How’s that?”

“Gamora…” It’s equal parts incredulous and affectionate as he brushes her hair back again, kissing her temple before he continues. “Where do you even want me to start? I’ve known you all of two months and you’ve saved my life more times than I can count, starting on Xandar. I’ve never had anyone look out for me like you do, or listen to me like you do, or… _care_ like you do.” 

_Because I love you,_ she thinks immediately, but still can’t quite bring herself to actually say the words. It isn’t that she doesn’t mean them, knows that without question. But it still feels insurmountable to speak aloud, the voices of caution, of loss in the back of her mind still too loud to overcome. There will be time for that, she tells herself. There _will_ because there has to be. Instead she sits up in his lap again and kisses him fiercely, trying to put everything unspoken into her actions, hoping he’ll understand.

Peter groans against her mouth and shudders under her, resting both hands on her hips as though grounding himself. When she pulls back, she sees that he’s tearing up again, but this time it doesn’t alarm her. She recognizes the look, the almost unbearable happiness. Gamora reaches out and touches his cheek, traces the line of his jaw with the pad of her thumb before moving downward. His skin is warm, just the slightest bit flushed over the curve of his neck, his shoulder, the swell of his clavicle. She pauses again with her palm over the place where she can feel his heart fluttering, letting it calm her for a minute before she strokes a finger across his nipple, mimicking what he did for her earlier. 

She still feels clumsy, self-conscious about touching him, though she knows it’s irrational. It’s not like Peter doesn’t know that she’s unpracticed at this. It’s also not like Peter is the most poised person she’s ever met in any aspect of life. Still, she wants nothing more than to make this good, to take care of him like he’s already been doing for her.

He responds immediately under her touch, the flush on his chest deepening and goosebumps erupting over both of his arms. She arches an eyebrow and does it again, relishing his reaction.

“Gamora,” he practically whines, though it’s clear he’s not complaining about what she _is_ doing.

“Yes?” she prompts, teasing his nipple a third time, very lightly, loving the way his body jerks under hers.

“More?” he asks, rolling his head back, an invitation.

She’s struck by the implicit trust he’s showing in baring his throat this way. Of course she knows that Peter isn’t afraid of her, hasn’t ever been, really, even when that was probably misguided. Still, she isn’t used to having anyone encourage her to do something so vulnerable, so intimate. 

Leaning in, she kisses the side of his neck, softly at first, just exploring. She finds the place where she can feel his pulse and pauses there, her own heart pounding as she realizes again how comparatively fragile his life is, how she can _feel_ it under her mouth, her fingers, how she desperately wants to protect and support him. 

Taking a shaky breath, she moves on at last, sucking lightly, experimentally, at his clavicle. Peter outright moans at that, which inspires her to return her attention to his nipple at the same time, adding a little more pressure. This time he curses and practically writhes under her, reminding her again of how very responsive he is, especially for her.

Peter runs his hands down her back, then under her, carefully adjusting the angle of her hips. 

“This okay?” he asks, waiting for her to nod before ducking his head to kiss the skin between her breasts. He continues that contact with a hand, dipping his thumb into her navel and then tracing one of her hip bones, which makes her shiver. She thinks he’s going for the patch of silver again, but he surprises her by deviating to the side, stroking along her inner thigh, up to the crease where it joins her hip.

He meets her gaze and holds it as he explores gently with one fingertip until he finds her clit, having clearly studied what she was doing earlier. “Here?”

Gamora sucks in a breath, not quite a gasp, and nods quickly. “Yes.” 

It feels good enough when she touches herself, always has, even when she’d been afraid to enjoy it too much. But having his hand there is a different sensation entirely, a delicious mix of pleasure and exhilaration, knowing that this is new, seeing how much _he’s_ enjoying it too. Her breath is coming quickly again before she knows it, and she takes hold of his shoulders, balancing her weight against them so she can rock her hips forward into his touch.

Peter smiles then, but there’s nothing smug about it, nothing taunting, just genuine joy. He keeps his thumb on her clit, rubbing lightly, but moves the rest of his hand carefully lower, not quite slipping it inside of her yet, but clearly intending it. “You ever try this?”

“Some,” she admits. “It was--pleasant, but...not the most efficient way to do things.” She feels her cheeks flush at that, oddly self-conscious about the admission.

“Can I?” asks Peter, waiting again for her acknowledgement, for her permission before slipping a fingertip carefully inside of her.

Gamora catches her breath again, tenses instinctively at the sheer intimacy of it, then relaxes. Sensing her uncertainty, Peter leans in to kiss her lightly, running a hand over her back before he resumes moving his fingers between her legs. After a few moments, he adds a second one, still gentle, carefully reading her reactions.

It feels entirely different than anything else she’s ever experienced before, as intense in the physical sensations as it is in the emotional ones, the profound sense of giving herself over to him, of being joined. 

He’s started to get hard again, she notices, and she wraps a hand around him, momentarily surprised by the heat of his body there. She starts slow, remembering what he did, just feeling along his shaft. It’s a bizarre and yet exhilarating sensation feeling the way his dick changes under her touch, getting thicker, heavier, his whole body even more responsive. He groans and bites his lip, hips jumping a bit even as she realizes that he’s struggling to stay still.

“I want--you,” she breathes, voice catching in her throat, though she’s never been more certain of anything. 

The words are vague, she knows, but he gets what she means immediately, and his nod is bordering on frantic. “Yes. Fuck, yes.” But then he hesitates, stilling under and against her. “Um. Can you get pregnant?”

Gamora blinks, taken aback by the question, but then realizes how important it is that he’s asking, that he’s cared enough to stop and take this into account. She shakes her head. “No. Not unless I have several of my implants disabled. They protect me from illness, too, so unless you feel the need for protection…”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Got my own set for--you know. Sex purposes. Just wanted to make sure we’re double covered.”

“Okay,” says Peter. “So we’re good. Let’s do this.”

He clears his throat, and there’s a beat where neither of them moves, awkwardness returning in force. Then they both break into laughter simultaneously, the tension cresting and ebbing just like that. 

Gamora rests her forehead against his as she catches her breath, closing her eyes against the last vestiges of embarrassment. “All right. You want me--just like this? I don’t know how to do this.”

“I know.” Peter looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods. “Yes. You stay on top, you’re in control. And I can guide you.” 

“All right,” she agrees, though she can’t quite shake the nerves, the insecurity over doing something so important yet so completely new. 

He smiles, touching her cheek. “It’s okay, I promise.” He touches the small of her back lightly. “Come forward a bit, and put your weight on your knees.”

Gamora lets him adjust her, bringing her body forward and bending his own knees behind her, his back braced against pillows and headboard. He keeps his free hand on her back as he lines himself up, but lets her sink down at her own slow, deliberate pace. She finds herself as aware of his body as she is her own, the muscles of his abdomen taut, then rippling as he groans with the effort of staying still. She’s struck again by the warmth of him inside of her, by the way he’s letting her take _all_ the most vulnerable parts of himself today. Throat tight, she kisses him tenderly before leaning back to meet his eyes again.

“Show me,” she breathes, taking both of his hands and placing them on her hips.

“Yes,” Peter groans, looking positively delighted. 

He directs her with the gentle pressure of his hands, lifting until he stops her, then sinking back down again. She keeps it slow at first, intensely focused, paradoxically afraid to do anything to shatter the mood and therefore failing to let herself savor it entirely.

When she’s found the depth and the angle that feel best, Peter lets go, bringing a hand up to tuck her hair back again, then touching her cheek. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

Gamora rolls her eyes, surprising herself with her ability to tease him even now, even in this position. “Right.” It helps, though, her nerves settling a bit.

“You _are_ ,” he insists. He touches the tip of her nose very lightly. “This is perfect.” Then he caresses the curve of her breast. “And this is perfect.” Smirking when her nipple hardens under his touch, he flattens his palm over her heart. “And _this_ is especially perfect.” 

“Sap,” says Gamora, though her voice is hoarse with emotion. She’s moving her hips faster now, and he’s found the balance of thrusting up to meet her, though the position doesn’t leave him much room to move. 

“Yep!” Peter says proudly. He ducks forward, kissing her shoulder, then finding his way back to her nipple again. This time he uses his mouth--lips first, then the tip of his tongue--and she cries out in pleased shock. 

It’s all terribly intense, and she can already feel her orgasm beginning to build again, surprising when it’s been such a rare thing all of her life until now. She runs a hand through Peter’s hair, and he makes a guttural sound against her, picking up the pace even more. She thinks he’s starting to get closer too, recognizes the hitch in his breathing, the tremor in his lower lip from before. 

Letting his mouth fall away from her breast, Peter lifts his head and grins at her, then slips a hand down between them and finds her clit again, drawing an actual _whimper_ from her throat. Panting, she picks up the pace as much as she can, adjusting the angle of her hips to give her more friction against his fingers. Apparently that feels better for him too, because he throws his head back again, thrusting up frantically to meet her, the muscles in his throat working visibly as he practically keens.

This time she comes ungracefully, Peter right behind her, and they collapse to the bed in a heap of tangled limbs and ragged breath. 

“That,” he manages after an indeterminate period, “was _awesome._ ”

Gamora makes a wordless sound of agreement and rolls over, curling into his side, one leg thrown over his hip. 

Peter wraps an arm around her shoulders, pressing a scratchy kiss to her forehead. “You good?”

“I am,” she answers, and means it.

There will be more to say later, she thinks, more to navigate and more to explore. But right now she’s content to drift pleasantly, the sound of his heartbeat slow and steady under her ear.

Later--much later--she’ll realize that this was the night her life stopped being defined by deaths, by losses, and began to be marked by fragile, cautious hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback means the world to me.


End file.
